


What Happens in Sunshade

by QueenNeehola



Series: The Second Principle of Magic verse [4]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Anal Fingering, Canon Compliant, Clothing Kink, Dreamsharing, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Link, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Relationship, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2020-09-06 22:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20299189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenNeehola/pseuds/QueenNeehola
Summary: Therion tumbled back onto the mattress and pressed the cloak - it was a jacket, really, but Cyrus always had the damn thing pinned at his throat like a cape - to his face.  The fancy trimmings rattled with the movement.  He couldn’t even pretend he didn’t know what he was doing as he breathed in, long and deep.  It smelled like figs and parchment and lingering sorcery.  It smelled likeCyrus.





	1. ...Stays in Sunshade

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to [sam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarExo) for enabling me. and turning me feral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so, this takes place during chapter 4 of my fic [the second principle of magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054155/chapters/42667883). it will almost definitely not make sense unless you read that first, so please make sure you do so you can enjoy horny cytheri in the correct context!

Cyrus smelled good. Therion knew this, though he didn’t know how or when he’d found it out, especially since the longer they travelled between towns the more Cyrus—and everyone else—began to smell of sweat and dust. But Cyrus valued cleanliness, neatness, was always wiping at his brow with a handkerchief and adjusting the adornments on his cloak. So it was only fitting that beneath the layer of grime the professor always somehow had this _scent_; something like winter spices and the smoky heat of magic and, naturally, the fresh crispness of a book’s pages.

So by extension, Cyrus’s clothes smelled good. Therefore, his cloak, currently gripped in Therion’s hands, smelled good too.

Therion tumbled back onto the mattress and pressed the cloak - it was a jacket, really, but Cyrus always had the damn thing pinned at his throat like a cape - to his face. The fancy trimmings rattled with the movement. He couldn’t even pretend he didn’t know what he was doing as he breathed in, long and deep. It smelled like figs and parchment and lingering sorcery. It smelled like _Cyrus_. 

Wired hot, remembering the meeting of his and Cyrus’s magic inside him and with the remnants of electricity still buzzing on his skin as much as the stormy skies outside, desire rose instantly inside Therion, mingling with shame a moment later in a suddenly desperate, filthy mix. His body burned as he rolled onto his side, burying his nose further into the fabric, his eyes closing as if not seeing his own depravity would somehow make it easier to pretend it wasn’t happening. But it was, and one of his hands wandered downwards to rub at himself through his pants. He breathed out, shaky, a soft whine following the breath as he felt himself grow hard embarrassingly quickly against his own touch—but in his head it _wasn’t_ his touch. In this indecent daydream he was crafting for himself, alone in the dark on top of Cyrus’s bed, it was Cyrus’s palm grinding against his cock just the way he liked it, drawing these soft noises out of him. It was so, so easy to fall deep into this fantasy, breathing in the smell of Cyrus, and Therion let himself plummet headfirst in.

* * *

Cyrus felt strange.

He had left rather quickly after his most recent lesson with Therion—if it could even be called that, since Cyrus still felt himself alight with static and with the vision of Therion before him, his eyes dreamy and unfocused, his body angled towards Cyrus—and he still felt guilty about taking off without a proper explanation, but as he picked his way carefully through the darkened halls of the Sunshade inn, he knew that wasn’t it. As he passed yet another door, behind which its room’s occupants were taking full advantage of the blackout to thoroughly and_ loudly_ enjoy themselves, he felt a distinctly carnal heat begin to coil in his belly, and he knew exactly what the strangeness was.

His breath hitched and lost rhythm, coming in uneven pants as he tugged at his shirt collar. The fabric was thin and loose but now felt too thick, too tight, sticking uncomfortably to his suddenly flushed skin. He rounded a corner into a dead-end corridor, still within unfortunate earshot of the passionate cries, and almost fell against the wall with how heavy and uncooperative his limbs had become. He wasn’t an explicitly sexual being, and he knew this, but he couldn’t deny the unexpected spike of arousal that shot through him as he clumsily shoved his hand down his pants to stroke himself, the whimper he let out at the simple relief of friction, the disgrace at how hard he’d already become just listening to _strangers_ make love. It was wholly inappropriate, _dirty_, and he had no idea why he had become so affected by—

His mind flashed an image of Therion. Not unusual, not these days (not that he’d told anyone that), but this Therion was lying curled in on himself, cheeks ruddy, eyebrows knitted in an expression of frustration as his hand worked tellingly in between his legs. Instantly feeling the fetters of such a startling, delicious delusion wind tight around him and hold him in shameful place, Cyrus groaned at the same time as thunder rolled again outside, long and low.

* * *

Therion had never liked Sunshade. He’d been there a handful of times before, but he preferred to avoid it if he could. The place was ever ripe with repugnant old men who were all full of wine and themselves and valuables just begging to be stolen, but the seedy, nasty atmosphere always clung to Therion and made him feel unclean. But now he was thankful for Sunshade’s reputation, thankful that the town embraced it, thankful that the inn provided free oils in every room (_massage oils_, the label read, as if anyone believed it), so, _so_ thankful that in this room, no one would walk in on him fingering himself open.

Well, no one but Cyrus.

And _that_ thought had Therion plunging his fingers deeper as he imagined beautiful, innocent Cyrus coming back unexpectedly, seeing Therion touching himself so boldly while wrapped in Cyrus’s clothing as if it was his own. He thought then of Cyrus joining him, pinning him down, having his way with him, and though he knew it was an unrealistic fancy of the highest order, he still had to turn his face into the fabric of the cloak to muffle the moan that bubbled up out of him. The realisation that he _wanted_ Cyrus to find him like this was like a hot poker against his skin that tautened his muscles and made his toes curl: an awful, obscene concoction of embarrassment and frantic, urgent arousal. Therion tipped his head back into the pillows, bucked his hips, and murmured, “Cyrus,” like the most secret of prayers, but it was lost in the rumbles of thunder outside.

* * *

Cyrus could have cried.

In fact he almost did, blinking back frustrated, humiliated tears as he kept stroking himself, almost bent double, legs trembling with the effort of keeping him upright. Shame sat sick and heavy in his gut: shame at being reduced to this, shame at touching himself in public, shame at thinking of his _friend_ as he pressed his thumb hard into the slit of his cock. But beyond the indignity, there was this heavy want of release, the driving _urge_ to come, so intense and unusual that Cyrus could barely recognise it. He whimpered pathetically, crumpling further, his free hand pressed white-knuckled against the wall.

His fantasy-Therion was still there, too, more a distant presence within the haze of lust in his mind than a detailed picture now, as if the insistent arousal had dulled Cyrus’s ability to concentrate. But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing: Cyrus thought if he pictured him again, it would be the end of him. He tried to keep his mind blank, but the thought of _(That’s exactly what I want)_ slipped through the cracks before he could stop it.

“_Cyrus_,” said Therion’s voice in his ear, in his head, in his entire _body_, high and keening even over the constant grumbling of the desert storm, and Cyrus came hard and fast on the spot.

* * *

Therion angled his wrist and splayed his fingers, searching for his prostate. _Pretending_ to - he knew exactly how to find it, how to touch it to make himself see stars, how to knead his fingers against it again and again until he came, shuddering and panting. But in this illusory scenario it was still Cyrus touching him, gentle yet eager yet unpractised, stroking his cock at the same time in a rough, unsteady attempt at a rhythm. Vaguely, one corner of Therion’s thoughts drifted off to ponder if Cyrus ever thought about him when he masturbated: if he pictured Therion beneath him, spread wide and wanting; or maybe he’d prefer Therion on top, holding him down as he drove him into the sheets mercilessly.

He didn’t know if that thought had anything to do with the way the lightning arced past the window, illuminating Therion in all his debauched glory for the briefest of moments, but it definitely had a lot to do with the way the muscles across his abdomen tightened, spasming wildly as he clamped down around his fingers inside him, coming in a few desperate, jerky spurts across his stomach. He groaned Cyrus’s name, legs shaking every time his fingertips stretched to brush his prostate, and he sank into Cyrus’s cloak and let its warmth and scent and soft comfort surround him as he stroked himself through his orgasm.

* * *

Cyrus shuddered through his own climax, sliding helplessly down the wall as his legs weakened and threatened to give out altogether. He felt his seed spill, hot and filthy, over his hand, _inside his pants_, the obscene voices of the love-making couple still echoing around the corridor but drowned out by his own rasping, heaving breaths.

In the moment he’d come undone, he’d seen Therion. His mind had provided him the prettiest picture of Therion: his delicate fingers buried inside him in the most erotically beautiful way, his back arched and his legs spread wide, his slender body drowned in the fabric of Cyrus’s cloak as he touched himself. It had felt so real, so _present_, like Cyrus had been in the room watching it happen in front of him, and as he finally sank onto the dirty carpet, the realisation that he’d gotten off on imagining Therion pleasuring himself settled heavy and oppressive over Cyrus. He felt disgusted with himself, he felt—

—sick, Therion felt sick with disgrace as he sat up gingerly, wiping himself off (with tissues also helpfully supplied by the inn for its clients’ use). He tried uselessly to steady his breathing but it remained panicked and uneven, as though someone else was setting the pace for him and he couldn’t keep up. At least he hadn’t dirtied Cyrus’s cloak, he noticed with relief as he turned it over in his hands, running his fingers over the delicate adornments. It still smelled like Cyrus even now, even damp with Therion’s sweat, tainted with his debauchery, and a horrifyingly hot line of excitement fed through his veins as he imagined Cyrus putting it on the next morning, none the wiser. (He cut that thought short, scared of where it might lead him or what it might lead him to do. _Again_.)

Therion had only just finished making himself decent when the exhaustion hit him. It had already been late when he’d come back to the inn and begun his lesson with Cyrus, so he could only imagine what small hour of the morning it must have been now. With his body softening in the contented aftermath of his orgasm and the laziness that followed it, he suddenly found himself unwilling to move, languid fulfillment dulling his usually sharp wariness and making him clamber sleepily under the covers of _Cyrus’s_ bed, still holding the cloak close. As he pressed his face against it once more, innocently this time, seeking the familiar snugness he knew it provided, his eyes closed automatically, so he missed—

—the lights flickering back on had Cyrus leaping to his feet, snapped to attention and mortified but still reeling. He stumbled the first few steps in his dizzy haste as he sped back to his room, abandoning his mission to check on his companions after the blackout. He blocked his ears to the seemingly unending sound of ongoing sex, wiping his hand on his pants (they were ruined anyway, he’d have to wash them) before hugging his arms around his middle, as if he’d be less noticeable, storming through the halls in the middle of the night, if he hunched far enough in on himself. With every step closer, he felt faintly unfamiliar tiredness creep further and further into his bones, and as he finally opened the door to blissful safety, he could think of nothing but how much he wanted to sleep—

_...with Therion_, his mind helpfully finished for him as he closed the door after himself and turned and caught the breathtaking sight of Therion fast asleep in his - _Cyrus’s_ \- bed. Therion rolled over to face him, dozing peacefully, and Cyrus’s cheeks went hot all at once as he saw that not only had the thief stolen his bed but his jacket as well, clinging to it like a safety blanket...or like he had in Cyrus’s fantasies.

Cyrus abruptly shut himself in the en suite.

When he emerged he was freshly changed, only partially calmer, and even more fatigued; like his body and mind had already decided to fall asleep and he was futilely prolonging the inevitable. It took the final dregs of his energy to reach the bed and fall atop it.

Next to Therion,

pulling him close,

like it was natural,

like he never wanted to sleep any other way ever again.

By the time his brain caught up with his traitorous body, Therion had already wriggled closer unconsciously, nuzzling into the front of Cyrus’s shirt so he daren’t move away without taking the chance of waking him. The jacket remained between them like an imagined barrier, like if Cyrus pretended hard enough he could forget that he had jerked off in a seedy inn hallway to thoughts of the man that was now currently sleeping in his arms like he belonged there. But he couldn’t forget, not in the way he wanted to: he wanted to be _humiliated_, ashamed of himself, he wanted to feel like he should scrub himself raw in the bath until his sins swirled down the drain with the dirty water. Instead, he just felt an odd, quiet serenity; a peaceful complacency surrounding him like it was coming from Therion, like it was rolling off his sleeping body in waves and drowning Cyrus, and he was helpless to do anything but go under with it.

When he gave in he was asleep in seconds, holding Therion close.

* * *

Cyrus woke first, vaguely remembering dreams of hands dragging across flushed skin and a distant, pure sense of belonging. He was still not as horrified at himself as he felt he ought to be, but that didn’t stop him getting dressed in five minutes flat and being the first one downstairs, nursing a black coffee that just wouldn’t wake him up properly no matter how many sips he took.

Therion didn’t stir until the hot desert sun beat down on him through the window, and as he rolled away from it on instinct he felt his legs catch in something. When he opened his eyes, he was tangled in Cyrus’s cloak still, and the other side of the bed looked crumpled, and the memories of the night before and the dreams that had followed it - both of which Cyrus had most definitely played a part in - rose through him slowly, bringing a flush to his skin as they went. Something else came with them, something that might have been another memory or dream, or a fantasy, or a _wish_: a thin, secure arm around his waist, a familiar tingle on his skin at the touch, and an affectionate press of lips against his hair.


	2. (But what happens in dreams might not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tonight is a little different, though. There’s something wrong with Therion, something buzzing and fidgeting inside him that stops him from turning soft and sweet under Cyrus’s attention, something that has him answering chaste kisses with impatient bites and a desperate tongue._
> 
> or: Cyrus and Therion share a very particular kind of dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is set during chapter 7 of my fic, [the second principle of magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054155/chapters/42667883). you'll know where this fic happens if you've read it. and if you haven't, then what are you even doing here? this will make _no sense_.

“Therion, are you alright?” Cyrus’s concern buzzed in Therion’s periphery, heavy with a tiredness that the thief could feel mirrored in every inch of his body. A hand followed the question, settling on Therion’s shoulder, and he was too exhausted - and too used to the contact - to do anything but turn to Cyrus, blinking wearily at him for a few moments in lieu of replying.

“I’m fine,” he said eventually. “Just...tired.”

“I can ask Ophilia to—”

“She’s tired too, Cyrus. We’re all tired.”

Cyrus relented, his hand slipping from Therion’s shoulder back down to his side; fingers flexing awkwardly, as though they were looking for something else to hold on to. He eyed Therion’s hand long enough that they were both aware of it. It was easy to remember how well their palms had fit together, Therion’s hand just a little smaller, electric where their skin touched. They looked away from one another.

What Therion had said was true - everyone was tired. The way to Duskbarrow was long. Even Cyrus, usually so blind to everything but his current goal, was feeling it, his feet dragging and his spells losing some of their edge the longer the group travelled. Though he was driven on by his pupil’s words, Therion could feel through this strange, mental connection between them the scholar’s weariness and anxiety growing in tandem the further they got from Atlasdam and the closer they got to...whatever was waiting for them. Cyrus was _stressed_.

“It’ll be fine,” Therion said, and realised too late he had been responding to his own thoughts - or perhaps Cyrus’s, it was getting harder to tell them apart these days - rather than the conversation they’d been having. He cleared his throat, sitting down heavily on one of the beds to distract from his embarrassment. “I mean, _I’ll_ be fine. After some sleep.” He yanked his shoes off and pulled his poncho up over his head. His knife went under his pillow, as it always did. “You should sleep too,” he said, and felt Cyrus’s breath hitch.

His apprehension was understandable. After all, they had taken to sharing dreams. Accidentally, of course, and almost certainly a result of whatever magical bond was forming between them. But it wasn’t the dream-sharing itself that was the problem - it was the content of said dreams.

More specifically, it was that Cyrus and Therion always ended up making out in dream-land, which had on more than one occasion led to them sharing a bed and almost making out in the real world too. 

Therion knew he liked Cyrus. He had begrudgingly made peace with that a while ago, and after his less-than-innocent adventure with Cyrus’s coat and some complementary oils in Sunshade he could hardly try to brush his feelings off as a chaste crush.

But Cyrus had seemed adamant at first that the dreams were a result of _his_...his what? Imagination? Stress-induced delirium? Repressed desires? Therion hadn’t asked, and Cyrus had gone red and clammed up, which was suspicious in itself, but it was easier to leave it at that and never speak of it again. And ignore the fact that they spent several hours every night kissing in their dreams.

Honestly, Therion would rather that than even entertain the possibility of Cyrus liking him back. He’d thought of it often - _too _often - but had come to the conclusion it was a laughable notion, that Cyrus was just treating him with the same kindness he had for everyone else, and that Therion clearly had no place to talk about ‘repressed desires’ when his inner turmoil for the past few months had taken the shape of Cyrus Albright.

“Yes,” Cyrus agreed, and Therion had to rack his sleep-addled brain to remember what he was even agreeing with. The answer came to him a moment later in the form of the single word _sleep_, and he had to wonder if Cyrus had sensed his flustering and thrown him a subconscious lifeline.

Therion looked away while Cyrus disrobed. Not that he needed to - the scholar didn’t sleep _naked_, and certainly wouldn’t start now in the exposed altitudes of Victors Hollow, but bashfulness stung at his cheeks and pulled his eyes anywhere away from the only other person in the room.

(That the group had stopped even discussing room distributions when it came to Cyrus and Therion certainly spoke for something, but Therion would rather not ruminate too long on what that something was.)

Although, he thought, it might be nice to lose himself in a self-indulgent dream for a while tonight. It had been a rough day, their journey marred seemingly endless monster attacks from the creatures of the Woodlands who didn’t much care for their territory being marched through by a group of strange humans. Everyone _was_ tired, and hurting, and stressed, and if Therion could alleviate some of that by kissing his attractive roommate senseless in his dreams, then he would take what he could get.

They bade each other a quiet, tense “goodnight” and burrowed under their respective covers, turning their backs on each other and closing their eyes and waiting for the inevitable to claim them.

* * *

_It starts as it usually does: out of nowhere, and Therion is floating in a softly lit, empty mindspace, alone. Until he isn’t. Cyrus appears around the same moment that Therion realises he’s dreaming, and he wonders if Cyrus realises it at the same time, if they have come to associate dreams with one another’s presence in such a way that it would feel wrong otherwise. But he never gets to ask, because Cyrus takes his hands, or his face, or cradles the back of his head in the way that Therion has decided he likes very much, and then they’re kissing again._

_(And no wonder Cyrus thinks the dreams are his fault, when Therion contents himself with melting into pliancy in Cyrus’s arms, letting himself be swept into the scholar’s tendency for tactile affection; small kisses over his nose, a thumb and forefinger kneading at his earlobe, an eager forehead pressed against his as they match smiles.)_

_Tonight is a little different, though. There’s something wrong with Therion, something buzzing and fidgeting inside him that stops him from turning soft and sweet under Cyrus’s attention, something that has him answering chaste kisses with impatient bites and a desperate tongue. He thinks Cyrus feels it too, if the way he pulls back to regard Therion is any indication._

_The dream is different, too - usually it builds itself around them after a while, forming the environment for them through thoughts and memories and external stimuli. In the Frostlands they’d dreamt of a warm home, a crackling fire, and kissing reddened cheeks while the snow fell gently outside the window. While traversing the Woodlands they’d had dreams of watching the sun set between the trees, the world around them falling to peace and shadow as they tucked themselves together, silent and close. But in this dream, there’s nothing. Nothing but Therion and Cyrus watching each other, hesitant and curious. There’s something that feels a little bit like their magic making Therion’s skin tingle, hot and distracting, but that feels just as alien as everything else. The only thing that’s the same is the way Cyrus smiles at him and nuzzles closer, and presses a single kiss against the corner of his mouth in an act of pure affection._

_But that isn’t enough, and Therion is **burning**._

_He surges forward, and the harsh way their lips connect would almost be painful if it wasn’t _exactly what Therion wants_, the way Cyrus is now the one melting under the fire of his touch just stoking him further. He pushes hard at Cyrus’s shoulder and he goes without question, falling back and taking Therion with him so that they’re unmistakably, somehow, hovering horizontal. But there’s something soft yet solid beneath Cyrus, and when Therion opens his eyes - he didn’t remember closing them, but dreams are funny that way - there’s a bed beneath them. When he casts his gaze around the area, it has become a small, functional room, and there’s another bed a few feet away, empty but clearly slept in. He realises that the dreamscape has formed into the very room they’re sleeping in, and the thought hits Therion that they might not be asleep anymore after all._

_It’s a horrifying notion, and a cold feeling creeps through Therion, quenching him bit by bit and stalling his movements. But then hands cup his face and bring him back to meet Cyrus’s eyes, so eclipsed by his pupils they’re nearly full pools of inky blackness, and his cheeks are flushed beneath them, his chest rising and falling in quick rhythm under Therion’s smaller frame, and Therion feels the cold leave him all at once, replaced with the warmth that Cyrus has always brought to him. And then Cyrus’s knee comes up to _press directly against his crotch_, and that warmth becomes a new, searing heat the very same moment a choked noise leaves Therion’s mouth._

_He doesn’t make any further noises, because his lips find their way to Cyrus’s neck, drawn there by some unknowable force, and when he grazes his teeth along the skin just hard enough to sting it’s Cyrus’s turn to gasp and shudder, an unmistakable buck of his hips jostling them both and driving his knee further home, rubbing against - and it’s useless to pretend otherwise now - Therion’s cock. He’s getting hard humiliatingly quickly._

_Therion bites, and Cyrus _moans_, the noise fading to a quiet whimper when Therion’s tongue traces across the sore flesh a moment later, drawing it into his mouth to suck gently. Cyrus’s arms are around Therion, hands indecisive and all over him: in his hair, tugging at his shirt, his shoulders, trying to find his hands to hold them. His knee is still between Therion’s legs, and Therion can’t even pretend he isn’t grinding feverishly against it, rutting his hips back and forth and groaning hotly into the pattern of marks he’s leaving across Cyrus’s throat._

_He doesn’t know how long it lasts, this urgent jumble of limbs and hands and lips between them, the way they rock against one another in sync, sighing and keening into each other’s mouths, hot desire raging in their veins wherever there’s a touch of bare skin. Too long, yet not long enough, an odd disparity of haste and patient indulgence present in their every move. This is their dream, Therion thinks, they can do whatever they want and take as long as they want to do it. Their dream, he thinks again, and feels with familiar certainty the echo of Cyrus repeating that thought, taking it into his own mind to reaffirm it. _Their dream_. The two of them. Not just a silly fantasy played out in Therion’s head alone. Cyrus is here, in the dream with him, and taking part in it with an unprecedented display of enthusiasm._

_They haven’t forgotten any of the dreams they’ve shared - he sometimes catches Cyrus thinking of how the shadows of the forest at sunset look splayed across Therion’s face, or how the firelight makes his hair glow like the sun, and knows they’re remembered from a dream. Which means this dream will be remembered, too. Which means _Cyrus_ is going to—_

* * *

Therion woke up with a start, nose pressed to Cyrus’s jaw, lips wet against his neck, and the delightfully mortifying weight of Cyrus’s knee still nudging at his very obvious erection.

The clumsiness with which he left the room would have embarrassed his dignity as a thief if the rest of his dignity as a normal human being wasn’t already in tatters. As it was, if the suddenness with which Therion disappeared from the dream wasn’t enough to wake Cyrus, then the slam of the door behind him as he fled certainly was.

Cyrus propped himself up on an elbow and blinked at the door, disoriented and vaguely disappointed, and it took him a few moments to realise that Therion hadn’t quite taken all the lust with him. He sank down under the covers again, chest rising and falling with the quick rhythm of his heart, and shyly brought his hand towards the waistband of his underwear.

* * *

Therion ran as fast as his feet could carry him. He never thought he’d be thankful for his natural speed and light-footedness in a moment like this, but as he rounded into the inn’s bathing area without meeting a single person along the way, he said a quick prayer to Aeber...and then a quick apology for the state he was in. He let out a shaky breath, relieved to be able to relax for a brief moment and collect himself.

...Until he remembered the Victors Hollow inn prided itself on its _communal_ bathing area. It was probably marketed as some nonsensical idea of building a sense of camaraderie and sportsmanship between fighters come to challenge the arena through sharing a view of each other’s naked, muscled bodies as they scrubbed the glistening sweat from their skin, or some such tripe. But the only sweat Therion could feel was the cold one that settled over the entirety of his body as he realised this was not the safe space he had hoped for at all. It was early, almost criminally so - the kind of dim, before-dawn quietness that was perfect for some impulsive purse-snatching - but people from all walks of life came to this town, so the idea that some stranger would be in the mood for a 3AM bath and waltz in while Therion was trying to shamefully rub one off to the lingering taste of Cyrus’s skin on his tongue wasn’t completely out of the realms of possibility.

But he was going to do it anyway. He wasn’t going to be able to help himself, he realised with a horrified kind of certainty, as he scurried over to the farthest, darkest corner of the hopelessly well-lit room and pressed his back into the wall with such force it was like he was trying to merge completely into it. The tile was cold on his bare feet and at the base of his neck, two points of contrast at opposite ends of his otherwise boiling body. The feeling helped to ground him somewhat, and he took a juddering breath to try and steady himself. It didn’t work, because all he could imagine, so vivid and vibrant inside his head that it couldn’t be anything but real, was—

—Cyrus wrapped a delicate hand around his cock, only half-hard but definitely interested, and a small gasp escaped him. It had been a while since he’d done anything like this - _Sunshade didn’t count, that was an anomaly_ \- and the simple touch had his eyelids fluttering closed and his head turning to burrow into the pillow. He thought of Therion, because of course he did. Therion in the dream, so eager and wanting. Therion out of the dream, skittish and shy and..._there_, in the corner of his mind, as always.

Was he seeing this? _Feeling_ this? The thought was as terrifying as it was exciting, and before he could stop himself, probing through their mental link with a hesitant, questioning touch, Cyrus thought—

—Therion jumped at feeling the distinct, deliberate presence of Cyrus in his head. Asking after him. Asking if he was _there_.

He tried not to answer, but that was an answer in itself, as was the knot of arousal that tightened suddenly in his gut as he worked his pants down to his knees and started stroking himself. Being seen by someone else in this situation would be awful, mortifying, but being seen by _Cyrus_ was—

—Still just as shameful as the first time, Cyrus thought, stilling his hand. Though he had at least the privacy of a bedroom with which to pleasure himself in this time, he had a new source of embarrassment in the form of his bond with Therion. The thief was a constant voyeur, in a way, and for the first time Cyrus thought about how many times he had undressed in what he assumed to be private.

But that was an inevitability, wasn’t it? If they were going to be sharing a mindspace for the foreseeable future - since neither of them knew how to break off this strange engagement, and it seemed neither of them were even sure they _wanted_ to - then they were going to see parts of each other that they would rather not be seen. (Or at least, Cyrus had assumed he wouldn’t want to be seen like this. He found he wasn’t so sure anymore.) And if this bond between them had been slowly developing for as long as he quietly suspected it had, then who was to say this sort of thing hadn’t already happened before, without them knowing? He began tentatively moving his hand again, softly drawing breath through gritted teeth as he pressed a soft thumb against the slit of his cock (now _definitely_ hard and even more interested than before), and suddenly thought of—

—_Sunshade_, Therion caught himself thinking, _this is just like Sunshade._ He’d had no way of making the connection at the time - and he’d been trying not to think of it since - but his fantasies of Cyrus that night had seemed so real, so unlike the boring, typical images his mind usually provided to help him get off, that now it was so _obvious_ that it must have been…

_Oh, Aeber help me._ Therion’s legs gave out all at once and he slid into a helpless heap on the tiled floor, the realisation making his blood run hot and cold all at once. That had been...they had…

His cock leaked pre over his fingers as he continued to work it, a slave to his arousal - and Cyrus’s, apparently - and the only thing stopping his shame and disgust at himself forming into nausea proper was another thought, jingling away in the corner of his mind and distracting his attention: _It’s a natural bodily response to certain stimuli. Spikes in libido and sexual urges are to be expected, and masturbation is the most common method of dealing with it._

It was almost reassuring. Almost - except the thought wasn’t _his_. The attempt at denial was obscure, too logical and clinical. It was so obviously not something Therion himself would ever say, ever even think, so the small attempt at comfort could only belong to one other person: the man who was sharing his thoughts, sharing his feelings, and sharing this exact, surreal experience with him from the other side of the building as they both had their hands down their pants. It did not make him feel any better.

And if Cyrus had been privy to what Therion had done in Sunshade, then - _Gods_ \- that meant he knew exactly what Therion had been thinking of when he was—

—Fingering himself was not a desire that Cyrus had very often. In fact, he had only done it once before, too many years ago to recall. He had gotten as far as taking two curious fingers and decided that he didn’t think much of it, and had never experienced an urge to try again on the rare occasions he did masturbate. But now, for some reason (_some_ reason, as if being vague about it would hide the truth), the very distinct thought formed in his mind that he wouldn’t mind giving it another go.

A very abrupt, very powerful shockwave of pleasure shot through him as he finished that thought, and he didn’t quite muffle himself in time. The moan seemed to echo around the room, made loud by its obscenity, and it was such a foreign noise to Cyrus’s ears that he could hardly believe he’d made it. He sank further under the sheets, flushed with—

—Shame and arousal gripped Therion like a vice, locking his knees where they were wide open, though he’d prefer to shut them tight and hide his indignity away. Contrary to that thought, he couldn’t look away from where his hand gripped his cock, pumping it in a pathetically unsettled rhythm, and he knew - he just _knew_ \- that it was the same rhythm Cyrus was jerking himself off to as well. This mental link, or whatever it was, had a lot to answer for: like how he could feel a near tangible regret that there weren’t any oils in the inn room like there had been in Sunshade, and how he could tell exactly what Cyrus wanted them for.

The worst thing of all, though, was that he didn’t need any sort of magic bond in the slightest to imagine with perfect clarity Cyrus shyly fucking himself on his slender, pretty fingers, probing curiously deeper until he found his prostate, and the _noises_ he would make when that happened - no, that thought was _all_ Therion’s, and it was all he was could think of as he came, shuddering through his entire body as he hunched forward, his groan of release bouncing off the empty walls around him.

Cyrus came not a moment later, jackknifed over the edge by the gripping force of Therion’s orgasm. It took him by surprise, in a much better way than the experience in Sunshade had, his mouth hanging open in a silent cry, his toes curling at the sheer white-hot pleasure that cut through him like a dagger. He could do naught but ride it out, helplessly fucking into his hand, eyes wide but seeing nothing around him for how intently he was instead focused on the gorgeous image in his head of Therion, trembling and cursing as he too spilled over his hand, pearls of white decorating his fingers like jewels.

_Embarrassing_, came what felt like a clear response to that particular thought, and Cyrus couldn’t help the small, silly smile that found its way onto his face.

* * *

The hyper-awareness that followed was the worst part, somehow. It was like tiptoeing around a sleeping person, when every sound is unnaturally amplified, every movement clumsy with deliberate attempts at subtlety.

Cyrus wiped himself off carefully, strangely hyperfocused and overdiligent on the task. But when he was to choose between scrubbing his hands almost raw or _watching Therion bathe himself after they had both just masturbated thinking about one another_, he knew which one was better for his own sanity. (He couldn’t help the little sigh that escaped him when the first touch of hot water lapped at Therion’s skin though, or the sudden urge to cover himself that had him pulling his sleepshirt closer.)

* * *

When Therion returned to the bedroom - because what else was he supposed to do when it was four in the morning and he had nowhere else to sleep that wasn’t _outside on the streets_ \- Cyrus was pretending to be asleep. He was facing away from Therion in the dark, his prone form rising and falling in a perfectly even tempo of breath, and utterly feigning sleep altogether. It was a poor ruse when they shared thoughts, and the slight quickening of Cyrus’s pulse when he heard Therion’s deliberately audible footsteps cross the room didn’t go unnoticed.

It didn’t stop Therion from peeling back the covers and climbing back in beside him, though.


End file.
